


Malocclusion

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: M/M, i don't know how to tag these things, i guess?, more medical metaphors, teeth horror, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:45:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6293794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys wasn’t delicate, he wasn’t spun like glass or melted like gold or splintered like ivory, no. He knew that Rhys wouldn’t snap and shatter underneath his grip, wouldn’t fall apart into pretty pieces at the slightest bit of pressure and pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malocclusion

**Author's Note:**

> More medical metaphors! Yay.

Some people compared their lovers to glass, or gold, or ivory, luxuriant things meant for treatment with the softest touch, but to Jack—Rhys was like _enamel_. Stained with flecks of coffee and scar, clearly once fresh and bright and clean but now well-worn and adequately soiled, gradual golden brown at the joints.

Not to mention there were certain spots, weaknesses in Rhys’s form, soft and rotting spots in the skin where Jack could press and probe, in the hidden creases between his thighs and arms and neck to send sensations shooting through his entire body, stimulating those concealed nerves and making Rhys twitch and sob spasmodically, body seizing around the yawning cavities split open beneath Jack’s fingers as he pressed greedy into the pulp. Oh, he could be so _rough_ with Rhys, he could grind down his mouth and body against him, clack their forms together and control where and when he wanted Rhys to crack. 

Rhys wasn’t delicate, he wasn’t spun like glass or melted like gold or splintered like ivory, no. He knew that Rhys wouldn’t snap and shatter underneath his grip, wouldn’t fall apart into pretty pieces at the slightest bit of pressure and pain—he could handle a little bit of wear and tear, but at the same time, if Jack wanted to, he could strip it all away, dissolve Rhys’s defenses in the acid of his hips and hands, chip it away with the thrust of his dick and tongue until he exposed the red and raw and _ready_ nerves underneath, taunt strings of pleasure and pain that Jack could play until Rhys was screaming, sobbing under the stimulus. 

It was so much more satisfying than a pretty body on display like a piece of furniture, meant to be wondered at but never, _never_ touched. 

Rhys, no, Rhys was meant to be _used_. 


End file.
